TW: binary clothes shopping experience, suppression of gender expression at work
I was certain for weeks that I wanted to be a ninja turtle for Halloween. I haven’t actually seen Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in a long time, but somehow all the new-movie advertising reached the insides of my pop-culture-insulated cave, and I remembered them and thought they were cool. A random person at a party informed me I was Donatello, as I chose “bookish” as the best adjective for me. A teacher I used to work with offered up one of her kid’s old ninja turtle shells. Things were set. I haven’t had an opportunity to wear a costume in a few years, so I was pretty excited.
Then this past Extra Hellish Week rolled around, and I didn’t have time to find a costume until today. I haven’t been expressing anything particularly frilly at work, because I don’t want anyone saying, “See?? I told you you were a girl!” It might sound odd, but even though I only sometimes wear “boyish” things, and never really identify as masculine or butch (or feminine or femme for that matter), and certainly don’t want to be seen as a butch woman, I’d rather be read as gender non-conforming in some way than not at all—even though, right now, I’d probably more consistently say that if I had to be perceived in a binary fashion, “fancy boy” would be what I’d prefer.
The result, though, of suppressing all other expressions at work except “dapper,” “bookish,” “flashy,” and, sometimes, “surfer dude,”—basically, suppressing my fairy/pansy self and my glam “lady” side—is that I have become increasingly desperate to express those parts of myself whenever I can. Usually meaning, whenever I care less about if people see me as a girl, or if I feel like most people around me won’t make assumptions about my gender.
So I suppose that I shouldn’t have been too surprised this morning when I woke up, and after the usual half-hour of what-to-wear panic, I determined that I wanted to be something frillier for Halloween. By the time I got off of work, I knew I wanted to buy all the flouncy, sparkly fabrics on Halloween sale at the fabric store, and safety-pin them together. (I haven’t sewed anything since our pillow-sewing project in seventh grade.)
After walking through the girls’ section and sheepishly trying on too-tight XL Frozen and My Little Pony shirts, and bemoaning the fact that people only seem to put glitter on “girls’” clothing, I wandered through the too-cute toddler dresses and high tops, wishing myself baby-sized again. By the time I tried on a girls’ pink flouncy dress that didn’t button in the back, and saw at least 30 princess Halloween dresses, I knew what I wanted to be: a fairy princess. The problem was, I wanted to be this 20 years too late, according to society. At the Halloween store, they even had a unicorn costume! And a RAINBOW FAIRY costume! But only for people 8 years old and under, or for very small others.
I am just small enough to be tempted by some of these costumes, but no luck. I am still cobbling together some sort of costume (I vetoed the LED-light tutu because it was $30, and I did get some girls’ rainbow fairy wings), but it’s looking like my dreams of full fairy-princess glory will have to be put off for some other time. Why do “women’s” fancy dresses come only in darker, more “dignified” colors? What, may I ask, is wrong with bright pink, lavender, and tulle? I am here to demand glittery clothes in all sizes! Go glitter or go home!
Just some basic fashion questions here on Genderqueer-oween. If you celebrate, hope you all have a genderfabulous evening!